It was windy the day I met David. I crossed the street in front of a truck stopped at the crosswalk. The driver was handsome, with dark eyes and eyebrows and a nice looking nose. He smiled at me as the wind whipped my skirt against my knees, then tossed them up, revealing God-knows-what, and the man laughed at me. I smiled and glared, swinging open the door to the coffee shop dramatically to hide my embarrassment. After settling into a corner chair, the door chime rang and in walked the man from the pickup truck.
That was the moment I knew, I would whisper to him on the night of our fiftieth wedding anniversary. Knew what? He would roll over and look at me, his dark eyes still just as beautiful as the first day I saw him. Knew we were going to be together forever, I would explain. Laura. The way he would say my name would be perfect. You’re still bad at lying. I’m not lying! I would exclaim. The way you laughed at my skirt was just perfect. Just the right amount of pity. Pity? You knew I was dying, I would say. Now how would I know that? David would be kissing my fingers, maybe the palms of my hands. You just knew, somehow, I would say. And then we would kiss and make love and I’d fall asleep with my naked back against his chest and we would grow older and older until one of us died of the most natural causes, and then the other would live for a few days before deciding it wasn’t worth it without the other.
It was a windy day when I went to the coffee shop before my appointment with Dr. Grace. I walked across the crosswalk, the wind blowing my skirt every which way, with one final gust that made the man in the pickup truck laugh at me. I smiled and glared, dramatically opening the door of the coffee shop to hide my embarrassment. I curled into a corner chair, sipping my mocha.
“The cancer has spread to your pancreas,” Dr. Grace had said. I nodded, imagining what David would say to that. You’ve got this. He would say, and I would believe him.